


Strength And Stamina

by tiger_in_the_flightdeck



Series: Tiger's Tumblr Ficlets [24]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Body Appreciation, Date Night, Fingering, M/M, Prompt Fill, Rough Sex, Top!Watson, Watson really is a hottie, body conscious!Watson, could be read as Granada or ACD, desperate!Holmes, flirting with food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-25 01:29:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_in_the_flightdeck/pseuds/tiger_in_the_flightdeck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No longer as fit as he was in his Blackheath days, Watson is feeling more than a tad self conscious. Holmes is happily eager to reassure him of how much he appreciates his natural advantages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strength And Stamina

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a prompt fill (see picture) for an anon on Tumblr. I really ran away with this, because I have a serious love of a self conscious Watson.

The new suit was exquisite; a soft charcoal cotton to make it bearable in the humid summer heat. The waistcoat had delicate stitched detailing around the button holes and along the bottom hem. The jacket was trimmed around the lapel and cuffs with black satin.

Watson buttoned himself into the waistcoat, and slipped on the jacket. Frowning, he turned from side to side to look at himself in Holmes' full length mirror. He splayed his fingers over his belly, trying to flatten it, and pulled at the tails of the coat. Seeing how they framed his backside, he let out a disgusted huff.

"We're going to be late." Holmes called from the front room, where he was stooped over his bubbling beakers. Bent over, rather. Watson leant on the door frame, and shamelessly admired his slender form. The only consulting detective in the world hadn't yet put on his jacket, so Watson was afforded a clear view of his slim rump.

"Are we now?" Watson ran a comb through his hair one final time and scooped up his hat.

They had been planning dinner at his club for the past three weeks, followed by an evening in a private box at the Comique on the Strand. Between cases, and secrecy, and Holmes developing a sudden summer cold, it had taken them that long to get their schedules in order.

Turning off the burners, Holmes dusted his hands off and turned. "Yes, we... are... Watson." The man stood with his mouth agape for a moment, a soft look around his eyes. He cleared his throat and searched about for his jacket. "Yes; we are going to be late." he murmured a bit more firmly. His voice was deeper, and still slightly hoarse from a week spent coughing.

Watson ducked his head to mask the small smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. "Come here, your tie is crooked." He set his hat on his head at a rakish angle, and slipped his fingertips under the strip of crisp black cloth that circled Holmes' neck. The man flatly refused to wear a necktie, claiming it made him look even more thin and drawn out. That it meant he needed it readjusted daily by Watson was a benefit to them both.

Lingering over one another before they had to leave, Watson smoothed down his detective's collar and fixed the way his watch chain fell. His fingers nearly traveled lower of their own accord before he pulled away with a cough. "Dinner." he mumbled, picking up Holmes' jacket, and helping him into it.

*

"You're not eating much." Holmes observed, tearing a piece of bread into chunks, and dipping the pieces into oil.

Watson never tired of watching the man eat. When he was working he only allowed himself small snacks to fuel his body; usually biscuits, or a piece of ham stuffed into a torn open bun. It was after the case was completed that he fell on his food with fluttering eyes and tiny moans of pleasure. Now, he was placing the pieces of bread onto his tongue one at a time, and sucking the oil from his fingertips, making a show of it.

And he was clearly doing it intentionally.

Eyes darting around the room, Watson shifted in his seat. They were in a secluded corner of the club with the gaslight above their table turned low. The other gentlemen dining at the club surely thought they were simply trying to discuss an important client in private, and had paid them no mind. That wouldn't continue to be the case, if Holmes carried on with his display for much longer.

"You look obscene." Watson murmured into his glass of wine, but wasn't able to hide his grin or the flush that rose in his cheeks.

"And you are deflecting my remark." Holmes nodded at Watson's still full plate. "You've shifted your food around to make it look as if you've eaten more than you have. I'd wager you have your greens hidden under your potato." Reaching across the table, he poked his fork into the mash, and came up with a floret of broccoli. Brandishing it for a moment, he popped it into his mouth. "Ah, I was right." Speaking around the vegetable, he tilted his head to one side. "Mycroft taught me that trick when I was six."

With a grunt, Watson cut a sliver from his duck breast and bit it off of his fork. "I just don't have an appetite this evening, my dear." he explained, taking a gulp of water to rinse away the oily aftertaste.

"You are a very bad liar. Eat."

When dessert came, Holmes shuddered and whimpered his way through a slice of dense chocolate cake with honey infused cream.

"Should I give the two of you some privacy?" Watson nibbled on his brandied pear, and wondered how long it would take them before they could stand up from the table without being arrested.

"Nonsense," Holmes' tongue peeked out and licked a droplet of cream from the center of his lower lip. "I believe we are secure enough with each other that a temporary inclusion of another would only strengthen us."

"Someone is going to hear you." Watson hissed, grinning at the genius at the other side of the table. He opened his mouth to admonish him further, but Holmes lunged in with his fork, laden with a piece of the cake, dripping with cream. Watson let out a low, guttural moan as he closed his mouth on it. His tongue curled around the fork, drawing away every crumb of the cake and the sweet heavy cream.

Holmes' eyes lit up as he slowly took his fork back. "Still no appetite?"

*

At the Comique, Watson pretended to appreciatively watch some of the young women in the lobby blush and titter behind their fans, while Holmes sipped at a glass of champagne. And if Watson's eyes slid repeatedly over his companion, or if Holmes tipped his head to murmur a remark in his ear, or if they both started chuckling at seemingly nothing, the lobby was too crowded and pressed close for anyone to think it inappropriate.

They hadn't been able to secure a box for the night, so Watson had to content himself with accidently brushing his arm along the detective's and listening to his breath catch in his throat during the singing. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Holmes tilted his head to the side, his lips parted, and one of his long delicate fingers keeping time in the air.

When the show was over, Holmes still had a slight flush to his cheeks. Together, they waited in the lobby to congratulate the actors and singers on the production. Watson watched with a scowl as Holmes swanned over to a young man. He had played a minor character, but had an impressive vocal range and an even more impressive breadth of shoulder. The man grinned when Holmes' fingers darted in the air, describing with delight one of his key scenes.

Watson was torn between puffing out his chest, or sucking in his belly. Realising that either would be ridiculous, he buttoned his jacket over his waist and turned on his heel to seek out some champagne.

Holmes found him nearly half an hour later glaring into his second empty glass and rummaging for change in his pocket for a third. A cool hand pressed into his side. "It's time to go home." The words were murmured softly, and Holmes' thumb caressed him through his jacket.

The cab ride back was silent, but Holmes left his hand on Watson's thigh where it couldn't be seen.

Inside, he herded the doctor up the stairs to the top floor and into their bedroom. They kept the one off of the sitting room furnished, and it was where Holmes kept his clothing, but they slept together in what had once been Watson's room. Crowded against the door, Watson submitted himself to the demanding fingers that were plucking at his buttons.

"Was it the case with the rugby chaps last month?" Holmes asked lightly, pushing the jacket to the floor. It was soon followed by the waistcoat and Watson's hat.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

As he spoke, Holmes steadily stripped the doctor out of his clothes, leaving them in crumpled piles where they fell. He followed with his own, nearly toppling over when he tried to step out of his trousers without removing his shoes. He turned on his heel and went to light the candles that sat on the bedside table. The bed was neatly made up, with the blue nautical themed quilt that Mrs. Hudson had given them for Christmas two years ago spread out on top. "You've been trying to lose weight since then, and have been putting yourself back into training. Once a week you've claimed you've gone to your club, when in fact you've gone to play tennis, or box."

Sweeping his hair off of his face, Holmes went into the drawer of the bedside table, and took out the glass bottle of olive oil.

"Holmes, I don't think I'm-" Watson was cut off by a sharply raised eyebrow, and a pointed stare at his erection. Blushing, he moved as if to cover it with his hands, but abandoned the thought. He cleared his throat and stood a bit straighter. With one hand, he caught the bottle when it was tossed his way.

"I'm very thin." Holmes settled back against the pillows with his feet planted on the bed and his knees drawn up. "I'm bony in odd places and have..." he trailed off and gestured to the sharp point of his chin. Sitting back up, he braced himself on one hand, and reached the other out to snag Watson by the wrist. "You are warm." Pulling the man down so that he was kneeling between his thighs, Holmes pressed his face into his admittedly soft belly, and moaned. "On cold nights, I hardly need the extra blankets with you wrapped around me." His tongue dipped into Watson's navel before he bit down onto the flesh around it, leaving a perfect imprint of his teeth.

Huffing, Watson grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him down onto the bed, earning a delighted giggle. He set the bottle down where they could find it later, and dropped his head to trail kisses along Holmes' throat. His moustache, freshly trimmed that morning, tickled just below his ear.

Holmes wrapped his long legs around his waist and held him close. "You've brilliant stamina." he murmured, arching up off the bed when Watson chuckled and moved to the other side of his neck. "I didn't mean like that. Not _just_ like that. You can keep pace with me." Blindly, Holmes groped for the oil, and worked the stopper free. He drizzled some onto his fingers before slipping his hand down between his thighs. "You can run all night, criss crossing London, and still have enough energy to carry me to bed."

"Someone needs to." Watson muttered, sucking Holmes' ear lobe between his lips. Under him, he could feel the detective's body tense and shudder as he pressed a slicked finger into himself. "Let me help. You always rush it." He reached down and dragged his fingers through the oil on Holmes' hand. He was in just up to the second knuckle, so Watson coated the sensitive skin around it before probing his own in under it. Holmes thrashed, and his legs skittered along his partner's back.

Watson grinned and cradled Holmes' hand in his own. Crooking his finger forced Holmes to do the same. His longer digit brushed up against his prostate, and he shuddered once more. "Harder," he whispered through clenched teeth, lifting his legs a bit higher to give them better access.

Caressing the man's face and down his throat, Watson pressed deeper until their knuckles were bumping against skin. He drew out and thrust back in with two fingers. Holmes, always eager to show off, tried to add a second of his own, and pouted when it didn't fit. Instead, he grabbed the bottle of oil. With his other hand busy, he looked about in frustration for a moment, before pouring some onto his chest. He looked enormously pleased with himself as he scooped most of it up and reached down to apply it to Watson's erection.

"I'm ready." he insisted, squirming about and lifting his hips almost timidly. He shook his head when Watson carefully withdrew to line himself up. "Let me." Moving his legs so that his knees were almost in the other's armpits, Holmes guided the thick head up against his hole. His other hand reached around to splay over one of his arse cheeks. Biting his lip in concentration, he thrust his hips up until he was very slowly breached. "All-all right. Now."

Watson rocked forward, stopping every few breaths to give Holmes a chance to get used to the intrusion. When, after what felt like several long minutes, he was bottomed out inside of him, he gathered his lover close until he felt his muscles relax. Crooning loving nonsense, he peppered him in kisses. "I've got you, my dear." he whispered. "You're alright, my wee love."

Holmes began twitching, and quietly pleaded "Hold me down."

Lips pursed, Watson placed his hands on Holmes' shoulders, pinning him to the mattress. It pushed his chest up, and angled his hips just a little deeper as he shifted his knees to support his weight. He was able to look down and see where their bodies were coming together roughly.

Without a condom to numb the sensations, he could feel every flex and tremor that Holmes made. His prick was bobbing, trying to rut up against Watson's stomach, leaving a small wet spot where it touched. Long and slim, it was flushed a dusky rose near the head where the foreskin was stretched taut.

"May I touch? Am I allowed?" Holmes' eyelids fluttered, and his head tossed on his pillow. "Please, can I finish?"

Watson picked up his pace. The bed frame groaned its protests, knocking against the wall and creaking loudly. He waited until he saw tears of desperation pricking at the corners of those brilliant grey eyes before he nodded. "Go on then, love."

Not bothering to smother his eager gasp, Holmes wrapped his fingers around his cock, and squeezed. It didn't take him long at all, and Watson had to brace his forearm over his chest to keep him still. Fist pumping, Holmes shouted his lover's name as thick semen pulsed out over his stomach.

Watson's orgasm was slower, giving him time to admire the way his cold, calculating machine dissolved into a wanton trembling mass beneath him. Even after he had milked himself dry, Holmes continued to tug on his length. His muscles churned around Watson's cock, encouraging him to join him. Finally he let go and used both of his hands to grip the other man by the backside, pulling him in harder.

Much quieter than Holmes, Watson bit down on his lip and muffled a groan of pleasure as his orgasm crept up on him. Thrusting himself to completion, he buried his head into the curve of Holmes' neck. He kissed and licked at his still jumping pulse, and tucked an arm under his shoulders to keep him close.

Warm, giddy giggles rolled through Holmes as his legs fell limply to the mattress. They were still joined together, and neither seemed to want to make the move to separate themselves. After the giggles ceased, and were no longer sending vibrations through his body, keeping Watson hard, they lazily pulled apart. The doctor winced as scratches across his arse that he hadn't felt earlier made their presence known. Shifting Holmes to the side, he rolled over onto his back and folded his arms behind his head.

"Cigarette." Holmes moaned, turning over to paw at the contents of the table. A candle tipped over and guttered out as it hit the floor. "Pipe. I'll smoke one of your repulsive cigars, I don't care. Give me tobacco." He almost yanked a drawer off until he found a tin of Ship's. With a kittenish whimper, he struck a match and inhaled before collapsing back to nestle against Watson's side.

Plucking the cigarette from between shaking fingers, Watson took a long drag and blew a plume of smoke towards the ceiling with a smug grin. He curled an arm around Holmes' shoulders and held him. He would help him get into a bath later to soak away any aches and pains he would be feeling and clean the semen that was already drying to their skin. For now, he was content to have him still occasionally breaking into peals of giggles, and dozing lightly against his chest.


End file.
